"A Bedtime
Story"
July 26, 2000
Listen to this story, my child, of the greatest legend of our
time; he known as the Scarlet Pimpernel. In the beginning of the
Revolution, all of France was held under the claws of a vicious
regime of strict men who had been put down and degraded all of their
lives by the aristocracy. Finally, they would take no more and they
were pushed to bloodshed. They unseated a monarchy and took the
country for their own. These few men vowed to rid their country of
treason at all costs, but their thoughts were tainted by their own
marred pasts. Any who were aristocrats qualified as traitors in their
eyes and were put to death. So many traitors were found that they
needed a new way, an easier way, to have justice done. And so Madame
la Guillotine was born. A mechanical beauty who captured the heads of
all she met and the streets of the City of Lights ran crimson with
blood.
Now, not all of the aristocrats were guilty. Oh no, many of them
were quite innocent, but they were found guilty by association. So
many innocent heads fell. Men, women, and children. And all the world
watched in horror without the slightest clue of how to stop it. That
is, until one man stepped forward. One to lead and nineteen to obey.
And so the Scarlet Pimpernel was born.
A noble man who worked in the dark to save the innocent heads from
the guillotine. He could hear the cries of those in distress from as
far away as England, for it was said that he was indeed an
Englishman. All of France wanted to know who he was to stop him from
denying Madame Guillotine of her sanguine hors d'oeuvres. All of
England longed to know his identity for the simple reason of thanking
him for doing what none of them had the courage to do.
They say that the only thing the leaders of the Revolution were
afraid of was the small, star-shaped flower scrawled in red chalk
that finished all of the Pimpernel's missives. And they only received
such epistles when one of their traitors had escaped from the blade,
supposedly by supernatural means. For that was all the soldiers and
guards could say, was that the man who had accomplished the deed had
been giant. A muscular goliath who seemed to disappear with a snap of
his fingers and who could alter his appearance simply by changing his
coat.
This brave Pimpernel saved a good many innocents during the course
of the Reign of Terror, including a number of the members of the
English court. But, I suppose I must be grateful to him for saving
one person most of all . . . me. For, if I hadn't escaped their
clutches, you wouldn't be here either, little one. I have watched you
grow, my dear, and I have always been thankful to the Pimpernel for
giving both you and I this chance to live out our lives.
All through these years of chaos, no one has known the identity of
the Scarlet Pimpernel except for a select few. Only his men, his
wife, and his worst enemy have known who he really is. You ask why
*I* know these things? Well, I know because I was, and am, one of
those few. I know who the Pimpernel is. A piece of knowledge that so
many in the world would give their fortunes to know and I will take
it to my grave. Except for you, my darling. Only you will carry on
the knowledge of the Pimpernel's alter ego.
You should know who he is, because he is one of the people you
respect and love most in this world. He is none other than my own
dear husband and your own sweet father &endash; Sir Percy Blakeney.
So, now you know, my love, and I hope you hold this knowledge as dear
to your heart as I do. Now, it's off to bed with you.
With this, the girl looked up at her mother, Marguerite Blakeney,
and over at her father, the Scarlet Pimpernel himself, and walked
over to the patch of garden that was closest to their garden bench.
She picked a small flower and returned with it. Her father smiled as
she handed it to him and kissed him on the cheek, for he knew it
well. It was a scarlet pimpernel.
~ * ~